When I was a kid (about a month ago) I used to get into deeply philosophical discussions that probed the truths of humanity. Topics ranged from movies to cartoons to game shows to comic books and all other dorky things with which I rarely admit involvement, yet wholeheartedly participate.
To get a clearer picture of this, imagine kids sitting around without jobs and responsibilities, talking about things that don't matter at all, while the world and all its important issues (and youth) floats on by.
Wait, that's college.
Anyway, sometimes the probing discussion would stray into talk about who would win in fights. Usually we would pit two juggernauts of pop culture against each other in hopes of sparking some sort of debate that raged into the wee hours. Often, it worked.
Who would win in a fight: Judas Priest or Iron Maiden? Jimmy Carter or Walter Mondale? My toaster or my waffle iron?
Recently, these debates have been going on again, but mainly between the voices in my head. Even with legions of fans lining up to see the Harry Potter movie, I'm not ashamed to put this in print. At the risk of drawing letters by the bazillion, I submit this with reckless abandon.
Who would win in a fight: The KISS Army or Harry Potter's minions?
I want to see the KISS Army come out and stomp the holy living snot out of Harry Potter's minions. Normally, I am not violent, nor do I support violence (except on people who take my parking spot), but this must be done.
I am very protective of my pop culture. I'm not even a member of the KISS Army. I don't even like KISS, come to think of it, but I would hate to see legions of Harry Potter fans happily existing while the KISS Army fades away into pop culture obscurity -- especially when we all know the KISS Army could come out and whoop all over them.
Imagine excited children standing in theaters waiting to see Harry Potter when all of a sudden, the KISS Army, made up entirely of 14-year-old boys and grown men who act like them, breaks through the wall. As these camouflaged, rock-sign gesturing, pubescent rocker dudes pour in, KISS music would start blaring over the loudspeakers (most likely "Lick It Up" or "Detroit Rock City"), and the little children would scream and run behind the popcorn stand, taking their little brooms and capes and goofy-ass glasses with them.
That's awesome.
The theater manager would come running out, popcorn butter all over his pristine white shirt, and say, "Hey, you KISS people can't come in here," but it would be too late, for the Army would pick him up and carry him away to a broom closet. Moments later, he would emerge bedecked in the clothing and make-up of Gene Simmons, complete with platform soles and three-foot tongue. The KISS Army would stand nearby and marvel at his newfound rockitude.
Soon thereafter, a respectably yuppie parent would step into the crossfire in hopes of protecting the theater's lemming-like denizens, but the KISS Army would take him away to the broom closet as well. He would emerge bedecked in the clothing and make-up of the Star Child, Paul Stanley, complete with shrill voice and knowledge of three guitar chords. That man would scare the living hell out of the children.
Pyrotechnics would explode through the carpet and theater employees made up like Peter Criss and Ace Frehley would descend from the ceiling with their instruments. Rock would shake the theater and the followers of all things Harry Potter would succumb to the supremeness that is "God of Thunder."
Harry Potter's minions would be conquered by the KISS Army. A longstanding and mystical element of popular culture would be preserved in the face of upstart corporate mayhem, and I would smile upon it, for it would be good.
Write to John at kingseyeland@hotmail.com.
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